Target Omega

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tanski’s assassination confirmed Garin’s initial suspicion that someone had taken out his entire team, but part of him insisted on remaining in denial. After all, how could seven of the most skilled operators in the world, plus, apparently, their support, be eliminated so effectively? Who had that kind of capability? What was the motive?

So after leaving Tanski’s he drove quickly to the residences of each and every member of Omega and its support team to confirm whether they were dead or alive. First, Cal Lowbridge’s, where an inconsolable Jerri gave Garin the news. Then to Manny Camacho’s, where an ambulance crew was in the process of taking his wife, Miriam, to the hospital and a neighbor hovering nearby explained that the cops had found the bodies of Manny and someone named Calhoun. Garin made an anonymous call to the Prince William County Sheriff’s Office after finding Rod Mears lying on his side on his kitchen floor, the back of his head blown away.

And on it went — Joe Calabrese, the members of the support team — yet after each confirmation, Garin held out hope that someone had escaped the slaughter.

But any remaining doubt evaporated when he drove to John Gates’s house in Dumfries, to check the last member of Omega. Garin stopped a block from his destination. The place now consisted only of a brick fireplace and damaged chimney surrounded by smoldering embers that had once been Gates’s home. Much of the yard was surrounded by yellow police tape. Two yellow fire department SUVs were all that remained of the crew that had extinguished the blaze several hours earlier. Several arson investigators and technicians were picking through the rubble. Garin knew, if they hadn’t already done so, they would soon find the remnants of Gates’s body. And he knew that he was now the only surviving member of Omega.

Garin turned the Jeep around and headed back to his apartment in Dale City. He needed to tend to the grim matter of body disposal. He considered dispensing with the chore — in the big picture, neatly getting rid of the corpses of two killers didn’t exactly qualify as a high-priority item. On the other hand, in the summer heat the bodies would begin decomposing and the stench would lead to their quick discovery and yet another problem Garin didn’t need.

The Saturday evening traffic on I-95 North was moving slowly. Garin, normally impatient, barely noticed, consumed by the events of the day. As he drove, it occurred to Garin that perhaps the only person he could trust now was Clinton Laws. The old soldier’s counsel and assistance might be essential to staying alive. So while the traffic inched along, he punched Laws’s number and waited. The phone rang but there was no answer, unusual for Laws. He disconnected and hit redial. Again no answer.

Garin took the Dale City exit and proceeded west on Dale Boulevard toward Minnieville. It didn’t take long for him to determine that body disposal wasn’t going to be on tonight’s agenda. Well before pulling into the apartment complex off Minnieville, he could see a number of official-looking vehicles surrounding his building. When he drew closer he could see more than a dozen individuals in distinctive blue FBI jackets standing on the grass immediately outside the open door of his apartment. Several floodlights shone on the entrance. Milling about just beyond the circle of FBI agents were dozens of apartment residents. Several Dale City police officers were standing next to cruisers occupying the parking spaces where Garin’s Jeep had been just a few hours earlier.

Flitting about the perimeter of the crowd was Emilio, searching for gaps in the ranks of the curious for a view into the apartment. Unsurprisingly, it took the hyper-vigilant Emilio only a few seconds to notice Garin’s Jeep seventy yards away in the drive off Minnieville. Garin put a finger to his lips, and Emilio, barely able to contain himself, gave a slow conspiratorial nod in response. That act alone would assume mythic proportions in the next Señor Lofton tale Emilio would tell his friends.

Garin carefully examined the scene for anything amiss, anything that might provide insight into who was behind the attack on his team. No one seemed out of place. Everyone appeared to be either law enforcement or residents of the complex. But one thing seemed obvious: Whoever had directed the attempt on his life, having failed, was now setting him up to take the fall. No one had seen him kill his two assailants. No one had cause to call the police, let alone the FBI. And no one had cause to enter his apartment. Yet the place was overrun with law enforcement. Someone wanted the authorities to know he had killed the two men whose bodies were now being carted out of the unit.

Fortunately, a search of his apartment would yield nothing related to Michael Garin. The apartment was leased to Thomas Lofton, and any identifying information found inside — credit cards, bills, passport, were in that name. All of his neighbors knew him as Lofton, and any check on the description of his Jeep or its license number would return Lofton as the owner.

In hindsight, Garin knew it had been a mistake to leave the Makarov in the apartment while he checked on Tanski, but even so, any fingerprints the FBI lifted off the weapon, or anything else in his apartment, would belong to Thomas Lofton. That would be fine if the matter were confined only to the local police and the FBI. But when his prints were checked against the BCI database, alarms would be triggered in certain quarters. There was a select group of individuals who would immediately know that the FBI’s suspect was Michael Garin, and it was unclear how those individuals would react; they were, after all, the only ones who knew the identities of the Omega team and where they could be found. As Clint Laws would say, there were no coincidences in this business.

The thought of Laws prompted Garin to punch the old man’s number into his cell phone again. Still no answer. Laws not answering once was happenstance. Failing to answer twice was unusual. Three times signaled an emergency. Garin’s mind reflected back to a man in gray slacks and a blue blazer nursing a tonic water in the lounge of the Diamondback.

At the moment it appeared everyone who had a close association or recent contact with Garin was now dead or unreachable. Which made Garin’s stomach plummet when he realized he hadn’t thought to call his sister, Katrina.

Garin knew he should go dark. Whoever was methodically finding and executing some of the finest operators in the world had impressive capabilities. Garin’s phone was supposedly secure, but he had to assume that whoever was responsible for today’s carnage had the ability to intercept and track his communications. US intelligence agencies could easily do so, and it was certainly possible that someone within the community was involved. Regardless, he had to take the risk of contacting his sister. Then he would make sure to disappear.

Keeping an eye on the scene outside his apartment, Garin punched Katy’s number on his cell and waited. After four rings it went to voice mail. He disconnected and redialed. Same thing. And just like that, his anxiety spiked. He had to go to Ohio to check on Katy and her family. He couldn’t fly; security cameras and credit cards would reveal his whereabouts, so that left driving.

Garin put the Jeep in gear and, as Emilio watched, put a finger to his lips again in reminder. Coconspirators executing a classified mission. Emilio kept his hands at his sides and gave a slight, surreptitious nod of acknowledgment.

Garin turned the Jeep around. There was little doubt that whoever had tried to kill him this afternoon would try again. But he was going to make sure his sister and her family were safe. And then he was going to kill every single person responsible for today’s slaughter.